Consciousness
by Ranngl
Summary: Sometimes it takes a lot to understand a brother.


Hello ladies and gentlemen. This is my first time posting a TMNT fic here, though I have been lurking for some time now. Please read and review. I love feedback.

Summary: Sometimes it takes a lot to understand a brother.

Consciousness

By Ranngl

Raphael is never this quiet.

My brother is lying on his bed, sleeping. Donnie will be in within a few hours to change the dressing on his leg and to give him antibiotics and Master Splinter's pain-relieving tea. I relieved Mikey from his watch about half an hour ago and with any luck he's sleeping soundly like he should be. I'm guessing he isn't, though. He's been worried sick. Splinter has too but our Sensei does not wish for us to see his worry. It has been a tough couple days for all of us. It's been toughest for Raph, though.

Despite the pain he must be in – the tea does little more than take some of the edge off – he's still curled up on his bed facing the wall, his scarred shell facing me in a typical defensive position. I find it amazing that even here on his home turf with his family protecting him, he finds it necessary to isolate himself from us as he tries to force his way through the pain. I had been trying to center my mind, but I drop my attempt in favor of staring at my brother as he breathes slowly.

A wise man once said that in order to get perspective on one's self, one must study others. I see aspects of myself in each of my brothers, as I'm sure they see themselves in me on some level. Raphael and I have always been different from each other, and yet sometimes exactly the same. We share the same determination but he lacks the control and sense of responsibility that I, and even my other brothers, have gained in our fifteen years. He either cannot or will not.

As I watch my brother sleep fitfully on his bed, I begin to notice the intricate swirls and patterns in each section of his shell. The green-on-brown patterns are so similar to the ones all of us have, but his are criss-crossed with many more slashes and chips from past battles. I fought by his side for many of those battles. Some he experienced alone, or with Casey, or something. He would often mention them in passing, but he would never really share that aspect of his life with us.

But no matter how much he would or would not share, he was never still. One thing about Raphael – beyond the anger, beyond the ego, beyond the strength – is that he is _always_ in motion. He has so much energy that even during our "downtime" when we're not patrolling or training, he's moving. It drives me nuts because many times he'll disappear from the den randomly, coming back who knows when with little or no notice. Sometimes he comes back angry and we have to deal with his attitude until he calms down enough. Or he'll leave the dojo in a rage, upset over some minute thing someone did. He'll storm out for some time, leaving us worrying about where he is, whether or not he's being careful and who has seen him on the way. This bothers me most because he's taking major risks with our secrecy and putting us all in danger. When I confront him on it, he acts like it's none of my business, like it doesn't affect me if he's leading the greater part of the five boroughs right into our home.

Even when he and I aren't bickering about something, he's constantly in motion. He sometimes sits in the lair watching television with one of us and he'll suddenly jump up and stalk into the dojo to train, to spar, to simply pace back and forth across the floor, or _something_.

Even when he sleeps, I can hear him through our shared wall. He tosses and turns at night, striking and blocking invisible enemies. Both his knuckles and the brick wall next to his bed bear the marks of these late-night battles. Sometimes he wakes up Mikey with his thumps and curses and I hear my youngest brother go into Raph's room to dodge the punches and wake him up or calm him down. I can never hear the whispered conversations between my two brothers during those times, but after about 45 minutes to an hour, Raph settles down and Mike goes back to his room.

Other times, Mike doesn't wake up at all and I lie in the dark listening to my brother fight. I wonder what Raph is fighting all the time, if he's going up against the same demons and memories we all are – loneliness, rejection, frustration – or if he has other collected memories from his solo outings that he hasn't shared with us.

As this commotion goes on, I lie in the dark and listen.

It's at these times that I am the most torn. I want to help. Despite his stubbornness, I want to help my brother. But unlike Mike, I never go to him because I know it would embarrass both of us. Our entire relationship is based almost entirely on one-upping and trying to impress our brothers, our sensei, our friends, or even each other and seeing him that ... vulnerable, that off guard, would not ... fit with us.

Also I can't help but realize that I wouldn't know _how_ to help him, and because of that, he would see my weakness and failure too. Maybe next time, if _I_ went instead of Michelangelo perhaps we could heal some of the damage between us. Maybe we could stop being opponents.

Maybe it would give both of us a little peace.

Tonight, at least, Raph's quiet. He's far from peaceful, though.

The irony of this entire situation is that I'm the one sitting by his side, wiping the sheen of sweat from his face with a cool washcloth. Don and Mike never told me where they got both the strong antibiotics and the saline to rinse out the leg wound. I have a feeling they "borrowed" the drugs from a pharmacy. They tried to keep it quiet, but I overheard Mike talking to April on the phone, asking her for money to leave on the counter. They knew I wouldn't approve, so they kept me out of it. On some level, I'm glad they did. Stealing goes against everything we have been taught about honor, but there was no other way to get the supplies he needed.

This all started a couple of nights ago when we were out on a training run on the west side of the city. As we leapt over the rooftops, I spotted a young black couple being harassed by about 15 gang bangers. It was a clear case of trying to build confidence through overpowering numbers. In general, these groups of desperate kids had rarely been a real problem for us, even armed with knives and guns. Despite the uneven odds, I expected only a short interruption to our training run.

I'm sure the fight meant much more to the young couple the gang had herded into the corner of the alley. Both the man and the woman were pretty badly beaten up. He was bleeding from a nasty knife wound in the arm and breathing like he had a broken rib. The woman's blouse was torn and a black eye was blossoming quickly. She bled from a cut in her scalp but she held a rock in her hand to use as a weapon. It was obvious by the jeers of the gang what they had in mind for the young woman and, from the shape they were in, it was most likely the youths were going to get what they wanted. Raphael grunted in disgust and I glared over the rooftop ledge as we evaluated the scene. As the gang moved in for the kill, I gave the signal.

My brothers slid into the shadows around me, silently scaling the wall on the opposite side of roof ledge. I sensed them slipping down the fire escapes and brick walls, drawing weapons and readying themselves for the ensuing battle. Our shared training and knowledge allowed us to know where each of us was going to position himself.

Donatello's defensive stance between the couple and the hoods reinforced Raphael's distinctly more aggressive stance closer to the gang. Michelangelo and I landed behind the gang and covered the exit into the street, blocking any escape. Raph, as usual, was the first to speak. "I always knew you scum were pansies," he challenged, "but now you've sunk to a new low."

The gang itself was shocked for a moment at the sudden appearance of two pieces of green opposition. They stopped only five feet in front of Raphael.

A guy with a shaved head answered. "Whatever you are, freaks, you better get outta the way or you're gonna get cut," he said, brandishing a knife.

Michelangelo, unfortunately, took that as a cue. "That's not a knife," he spoke to my left in an awful Australian accent. "_This_ is a knife!" and, left hand twirling a nunchaku, pointed to the katanas I held ready in front of me. I made a mental note to remind him about the ninjitsu skill of silence – especially when it comes to _any_ of his impersonations – and watched as the brashness of the gang faded into anger and, in some cases, fear.

Fear almost always leads to something else; in this case it was a need for confidence. They found bravery in the holsters at their sides. Trained in the beautiful and lethal art of ninjitsu, I had always found the weapons deplorable. There was a lot of power in the weapons, but no honor and little actual skill. Untrained children used the weapons to tragic ends and their simplicity was unbalanced with the amount of force produced. Even the styling of the weapons leaned towards the crude with the flat black metal reflecting little light, unlike the deadly grace of my own katanas. Only desperate individuals and cowards use the weapons. Raphael apparently was thinking the same thing as he snorted derisively as the gang boldly waved the guns around.

Like all the methods of cowards, guns are easy to get around if you know how.

As one, we attacked.

Raphael's sais flashed in the dim light as he fought to keep the gang away from where Donatello was protecting the young couple. I ducked to the left of the guy in front of me and grabbed his gun hand in a defensive take-down. I twisted until I heard the snap of broken bones and kicked him aside. Michelangelo leapt into the guy nearest him, taking him out with a swift roundhouse kick to the stomach followed by a cat strike to the neck. Deafening pops from the guns echoed down the alley and I knew our countdown had started. Gunshots were not common in this neighborhood. Someone would hear the commotion and call the police.

Donatello's job became several times more difficult once the shots rang out. The couple panicked, trying to force their way to the street. Unfortunately, that would have taken them into the middle of the fight and Donatello wrestled with them to keep them safe.

Gunfire echoed continuously through the alley. Michelangelo continued to crack very bad jokes as he made his way around to help Raphael's now-increased burden. Above the pop of another gun, I heard the wet crunch of spinning wood on bone and I knew Michelangelo had neutralized another.

One particularly ugly guy misjudged enough to stand directly in front of me and I ducked under his gun hand, cutting upwards with my left katana. It sliced the muscles and tendons of the underside of his forearms. He dropped the gun in a spray of blood. Michelangelo dodged around another one, screaming, "Hey Donnie! Got a question for ya!"

"I'm a little busy here, Mike," grunted Donatello, wrestling with the couple.

"Hey Raph!"

Sais crossed in an X-block, he fended off at least three guys. "What do you want, Mikey?" he grumbled.

Michelangelo's voice dropped into a vague Jack Nicholson drawl. "Tell me," he said, elbowing a guy in the face, "have you ever danced with the devil beneath the pale moonlight?"

"Mikey, if you don't shut up, you're going to dance with _me_ here in a sec, got that?"

Michelangelo fell silent but his grin told me he was having a ball.

The couple, meanwhile, decided that flight was no longer an option and that fighting for themselves was a better idea. Unfortunately that included taking on my brothers. Raphael swore vehemently when this developed, pushing his attack even harder to give Donatello room to work. Three guys already lay on the ground, and Raph was fending off three others. Two had guns and one, apparently a junior member not yet trusted with the expensive weapons, swung a crowbar.

Facing three armed kids with guns in front of me, I dropped into a sweep kick that took out two of them. The third jumped at the last minute. My side kick met his midsection. He sprawled on the pavement as his two friends were slowly getting up.

Donnie took a punch to the cheek from the man of the couple and finally losing his patience, screamed out, "Geez, buddy, we're the good guys!" He dove into the couple, taking them down to the pavement and knocking them out of the way of stray bullets. One member of the gang saw the opportunity and aimed his gun at the back of Donatello's shell as he struggled with the panicked couple.

Time slowed down suddenly. Twenty feet away, I could do very little except defend myself from my two attackers. I watched, unable to help Donnie as the guy raised the weapon and sighted down the barrel to my prone brother.

Relief flooded me when I saw Raphael make a sudden motion outside the flurried arcs of his sai techniques. In a move that would have looked awkward had anyone else attempted it, he side-armed one of his weapons across the seven-foot length of the alley, launching the central prong through the would-be shooter's palm and into the brick wall. At the same time, the young hood with the crowbar got lucky. As Raphael threw, the hood slightly adjusted his swing to connect with the side of Raphael's head. My brother sensed the swing at the last minute and bent backwards to avoid the blow. He didn't quite make it. There was a ringing crack of metal on bone. The impact that probably would have cracked his skull instead connected just over his left eye, opening a large gash and dazing him just enough to force him to fall back. Michelangelo stepped up and knocked down two with a split kick as Raphael recovered.

Sirens sounded down the street and I knew our time had begun to run out. Another sweep kick coupled with heels to the groins took out my last two targets. Since we had cleared out the vast majority of the opposition, Donatello let the young couple run towards the sirens. Jittery, they hopped over the unconscious bodies lying on the ground and turned the corner. Wiping blood out of his eye, an angry Raphael joined Michelangelo to take out the remaining three guys as Donatello pried open a sewer grate to give us an escape route. Retrieving the sai from the terrified kid's dripping hand, I back fisted his temple. He slumped down and joined the alley trash.

The red and blue lights of the cop cars flashed down the street and I knew our time really had run out. I bolted for the sewer lid, glancing over my shoulder as the last three guys shot at my brothers. Raphael barked at Michelangelo to go below ground as the lights from the cop cars approached. Finishing off one of the last two with a roundhouse kick, Raphael forced the gun to fly out of the guy's hand. He turned for the exit as the headlights were about to turn to flood the alley, apparently decided the cops would take care of the final guy. I dropped into the manhole just after Michelangelo. I heard another series of gunshots behind me and Raphael dove through just as bright white light lit up the narrow alley.

Still jazzed from the adrenaline high, Mikey jumped up and down as he twirled his nunchaku and grinned broadly. In the darkness of the tunnel, Donny insisted he look at Raph's head when we got home to rule out a concussion. Raph waved him away angrily.

"Ah, Don," Mike cracked, "we've known for years that something's wrong with Raph's head. Give it a break." I smiled inwardly but didn't say anything as I focused and calmed my own body from the adrenaline rush.

"Raph," I said, my voice echoing down the dank tunnels, "that was sloppy work at the end. We needed to get out of there a lot sooner." Surprisingly, it wasn't Raphael's expected sarcastic retort that answered me.

"Hey, cut the turtle a break, Leo," Mike said as we walked down the twisting tunnels to the lair. "He got clubbed over the head with a crowbar."

"Saving my shell, I might add," Donnie joined.

I let the matter drop and reached into my belt. "That reminds me, Raph," I started, pulling out his pronged weapon and holding it over my shoulder for him to grab, "I retrieved this for you. I'm a little surprised you left it there." I held the sai there for a couple seconds before I realized he wasn't going to grab it. "Raph?" I said, turning around to look at him.

Ten yards behind us, Raph was leaning heavily on his right shoulder against one of the rounded brick sewer tunnels. The orange lamp above him bathed his right side in shadow. The light made his face look sharp and angular, highlighting the dangling flap of skin from the gash above his left eye. His chin rested against his plastron which heaved with the deep breaths he took. The blood streaming down his face reflected the orange in an odd line as it soaked his mask and dripped onto his shoulder. Shoulders slumped, his left arm crossed over his body and into the shadow, evidently helping to support him against the tunnel wall. His olive skin, usually darker than the rest of ours, began to pale to an odd yellow-green as blood started to pool around his feet, glowing eerily auburn in the light. A thin sheen of sweat had begun to cover his body, making it look like he was a figment from the orange light.

"Raph?!" I said, shocked.

Dazed, he took a step and faltered, dragging his right leg behind him. The glowing puddle grew on the walkway. He grunted once and tripped and fell toward the pavement.

The three of us sprang forward and caught him before he hit, lowering him carefully to the ground. As his right leg fell into the light, I found the source of the blood. A hole no bigger than a nickel streamed my brother's blood onto the fetid pavement. Three inches above his knee, it was surrounded by embedded red-brown fragments.

"Oh god, Raph," Mikey cried, dropping down next to him. "Are you okay?"

Raph looked up at him with pinched eyes. "I've been better, Mikey," he forced through clenched teeth.

Donatello, as usual, had already calculated the problem and formulated the solution. "They shot him," he stated rather obviously. He untied his mask and gestured for Mikey's as well. "We need to stop the bleeding."

"What about the bullet, Don? We need to get the bullet out," Mike said as he unknotted his mask.

"Calm down, Mikey," I stated. "We need to stop the bleeding. We'll take care of the bullet and the powder burns once we get him home. Geez, Raph, how close were you to get these powder burns?"

"The bastard got me from about 10 feet back."

Eventually it took all three of their bandanas and a full half hour to stop the worst of the bleeding. I knew that anything longer than fifteen minutes was a serious injury and I worried if the bullet had nicked an artery. Slinging his bo onto his shell, Donatello directed us to carry Raph homeward while he ran ahead to get things ready. "Keep him awake. We don't know yet if he has a concussion." Donnie jogged on ahead, and called behind him, "And make sure that wound doesn't open up again. He could bleed to death if it does."

At about that time, it hit me that Raph really could die from this. We had been raised as ninja; we accepted injury and death as part of our job. We had to if we wanted to stay sane. My brothers and I dealt with pain as a byproduct of our lives. We got hurt – anywhere from strains and sprains to serious slices and dices – and we'd always healed and come out stronger. We trained, sparred, patrolled and fought with the knowledge that a slip in any one direction could lead to injury or even death of oneself or one's brother. We understood it, we internalized it, and we lived it.

However, we were also raised as brothers to care for and to protect one another, and never to let anything interfere with that familial bond. As I half-dragged my severely limping brother through the stagnant pools of underground New York City, I got a good look at his bloodied face gleaming sickly in the orange light. Blood ran down his leg as the wound reopened partially. Raph's eye swelled shut and all the green drained from his features. Mike kept talking to him to keep him conscious but I could only watch.

As we left a bloody trail, I suddenly realized that my existence as a ninja did not define me, my brothers or my Sensei. I realized we are people and individuals not just the freaks of nature the outside world perceived us. We were ninja. We wore the title proudly. Yet at that moment I wished we didn't have to risk our lives everyday.

Again I looked over to my ailing brother whose labored breathing echoed just under the scuffling sounds of our motion and Mikey's inane chatter. Without his mask, Raph almost looked naked and rather vulnerable. His eyes shone dully, sunken and dazed. Wrinkles I never really noticed before stood out against his pale face. His right arm, slung over my shoulder, felt cold. I could feel small shivers in his skin. He was going into shock.

With his jaw clenched tightly, my brash, loud and obnoxious brother was utterly silent. He was trying to force himself to listen to Mikey and trying to force himself to focus past the pain even as he slipped on sewer slime. I could see in his eyes that he knew he was losing the battle. He didn't ask for help or cry out, he simply remained utterly silent.

Quite frankly, that's what scared me the most.

By the time we got back to the lair, Don had already prepared what he needed. Splinter stood beside him, his outward calm betrayed by his darting eyes and twitching whiskers.

We eased Raph down onto the plastic-covered couch -- Donny had apparently thought of everything. Splinter looked on and Donny shone a flashlight into Raph's open eye. Don checked him over, carefully prodding around the gash on his head and asking him how many figures he saw. Raph flinched and clenched his jaw.

Pacing along the length of the couch, Mike looked rattled. "Donny, forget his head!" he urged suddenly. "His leg's bleeding all over the place!"

"I know, Mikey, I know," Don stated patiently. "I want to make sure he doesn't have a skull fracture. He does have a concussion, though."

"So? Look at his leg! They shot him!" Mike's voice echoed off the high concrete ceiling. The fear we all had about guns and bullets came through in Mikey's panic. Knife and blunt weapon wounds are easy to work with because we have natural armor. Guns provide the real problem because once the bullet goes in, it would also have to come out. Shells and plastrons would only be a hindrance.

Mikey reached out to grab Raph's leg as if to examine it himself, but I snagged his wrist before he could make contact. Sensei's wise voice calmly told Michelangelo to allow Donatello to work.

Raph's leg wound was a pulpy mass of blood and torn muscle oozing out from a hole inches above his knee. As Don worked to cut off his knee pad, I noticed his breathing had become shallower and his good eye slowly closed as he fell into unconsciousness.

"Hey, Raph," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. "Stay with us, bro." Raphael's eye snapped open in an awkward one-eyed glare but as long as he was awake, I was happy.

Donatello looked up. "Keep him awake, guys," he said, looking back at the leg wound hesitantly. "He's got a concussion and he could go into a coma if he fell asleep."

Raph still glared at me. He grunted slightly as I pressed a cloth against the gash on his head to stop the bleeding. I winced when he weakly tried to bat my hand away. "Sorry, bro, but we need to stitch up this cut." Splinter leaned over the arm of the sofa to rinse, treat and close the gash.

Mike appeared over my shoulder, rubbing the back of his head. "Donny, he's hurting pretty bad. Is there anything we can give him?"

"I wish there was. Anything we have would probably make him drowsy, and it is just too dangerous for him right now." To my surprise, Don didn't lean over the leg wound, evaluating and analyzing. Instead, looking somewhat ill, he paced back and forth across the length of the floor.

"Donatello, what troubles you?" Sensei asked.

"He has a concussion, Master," Don began, rubbing at his palms. "He can't fall asleep without the high likelihood of falling into a coma. However, the bullet is lodged pretty deeply in his leg. If we don't get it out, he could die from blood loss or infection."

He stopped his pacing and looked at me and the rational personality traits we shared led us both to the same conclusion. Sparing an apologetic glance at Michelangelo, he said simply, "we're going to have to dig it out, and we have no possible way to numb his leg."

Mike was aghast. "What!?" he sputtered. "There has to be another way. Donny, think of something! You always do!" Master Splinter closed his eyes slowly and lowered his head, moving one hand to Raphael's and the other to the top of my injured brother's head.

"I'm sorry, Mike," Don said quietly. "The only other way would be to take him to the hospital and we all know that isn't an option. We need to get the bullet out now before it causes more damage."

"Maybe April and Casey ..." Mike continued.

I called him before he could finish his thought. "Mikey, come over here. I'm going to need some help holding him down." He hesitated for a minute and then leaned his weight on Raph's lower legs to keep them still. I concentrated on stabilizing his upper body to keep any reflexive jerking to a minimum.

Raphael's eye was wide and glassy as I put my hands on either shoulder. Leaning my weight onto my hands, his jaw clenched again as the new weight shifted his leg. Looking down on my brother, I could still see the taut lines in his face as each muscle clenched. He was trying to force his way through the pain again, isolating himself from those who might be able to help. And again he knew that he faced a losing battle.

Leaning down over him until our beaks almost touched, I stared into that glassy, glazed eye. "Don't fight it, Raph," I whispered.

Master Splinter muttered a familiar channeling technique to him, reminding him to "allow the sensation to flow outward" as Donny, hands shaking, retrieved a sharp knife.

Two minutes into it, Raphael lost track of his surroundings and started screaming.

In ninjitsu training, one learns to adapt to his environment and make it one's own. This skill allows the warrior to make the most of what time he is given. This includes the perception of the passage of time. In a battle, time slows down to accommodate the warrior's movements and strikes. It becomes another weapon. A true ninja uses time to defeat opponents and obstacles. The ninja controls time so that he knows when opportunities will appear in opponents' defenses.

Outside of battle, time slows as well. In slow motion, I saw Donatello cut with the grain of Raphael's quadriceps muscle, using retractors and other implements to find the slug buried in my brother's leg. I heard my Master Splinter talk to Raphael in low, even tones in an attempt to keep my brother's attention on him and away from pain or unconsciousness. I witnessed the color drain from Michelangelo's face as he realized the bullet had actually nicked the femoral artery. I felt the bile creep up my throat when I realized quite darkly that the angle of the gun was perfect. Another three degrees vertically and the bullet would have busted through either his plastron or his kneecap; another three degrees horizontally and the bullet would have either sliced the artery or destroyed the bone. Any of those options would have either killed or crippled him.

Time slowed so much that in fifteen minutes I had stopped noticing the thick coppery scent hanging in the air around us. I didn't really hear Raph's grunts, yelps, and screams of pain after the first five minutes, nor did I hear the increasingly intense murmuring coming from my Sensei. The sight of crimson pools collecting in the crevices between Raph's thigh and shell had become mundane to me. Time slowed so much that the fifteen minutes before Donnie found the bullet and plinked it onto a waiting plate seemed like two hours. I'm sure it was much longer for Raphael.

I'm not fully sure how he managed to stay conscious through the entire ordeal but by the time Donny found the slug, he had stopped fighting us. His skin was paler than ever and he shivered from the cold sweat covering his body. Though his gaze concentrated on the large brown eyes of our Sensei – his white knuckles gripping our father's hand – his eye was wide and staring. As I looked into it, I saw no recognition and some delirium.

For the first time in nearly a quarter of an hour, Michelangelo found his voice. "Donny, he's not looking good," he whispered. "He's getting really shocky."

"I know, Mikey, I know," Don whispered back, concentrating. "I just have to finish stitching the artery and a couple muscles. After I stitch up the incision, we'll have to leave the original wound open to drain." He sighed and wiped sweat off his forehead with his bicep. "This is going to leave a bad scar."

"Donatello, your patience and calm has been an asset to you and your brother this night," my master said quietly, "but I agree with Michelangelo. It is time to allow Raphael to rest."

"Yes, Sensei," Don said as he stitched the muscles with something he promised would dissolve as the leg healed. I didn't ask where he got it and he didn't volunteer the information.

"Raphael," Splinter's said sharply. I looked to see Raph's good eye closing. "You must remain awake, my son. "I understand this has not been easy, but you must remain awake." Raph again focused on Sensei's face while Don put in the last stitch.

Don sighed shakily, eyeing Raph's leg and shallow breathing. "We'll need to keep him warm. He's gone into shock."

Raph's sheen of sweat shimmered in the light as Splinter began wiping down his face. His lips parted and he hissed something to Sensei that I missed, and our father nodded sadly. Spinter's eyes shone with either pride or pain, I couldn't tell which. Raph shivered as the blood dripped off his leg and onto the plastic-covered couch.

I began to clean around our father and injured brother. Mike moved around the back of the couch and seemed confused as he bent over the cushions. "Raph?" he breathed. "Raph, are you okay?"

Sensei's technique had obviously worked because Raph seemed slightly more lucid. His open eye moved over to Mikey's face as Master Splinter continued to instruct him on breathing exercises. He focused on Mike for a moment, but didn't say anything. He looked back to Splinter.

"Your brother will be fine, Michelangelo," our father said comfortingly. "He must prepare himself for another battle, however. This one will require all of his lauded determination."

"What do you mean?"

"He has a concussion, Mikey," Don explained. "We can't give him anything stronger than Tylenol, and we have to keep him awake for the next 24 hours so he can't lapse into a coma."

Mike looked incredulous. "We have to give him something. It's a gunshot wound, for Pete's sake! We can't just let him hurt this bad; I don't think anyone could take it."

"Do not worry, Michelangelo," Splinter said softly, never looking up from Raphael's partially lucid gaze. A small, secret smile spread along his snout. "If there is anything your brother has, it is stubbornness."

We managed to keep Raphael awake for 20 hours. Our goal had been for a full day but even with smelling salts, he decided to stop fighting his body and fell in with his physical and mental exhaustion. He slept for two full days despite the pain. We only woke him when it was time for the antibiotics and the weak pain-relieving tea Master Splinter made. Sometimes we could get some food into him. We could do very little other than wait for him to heal and rinse out the wound to aid drainage. The four of us – Master Splinter, my brothers, and I – took shifts to watch him. Casey and April even came down for a time while we were training or sleeping.

Now, on the fourth day after the battle, his wound is finally starting to close. Another couple of days, and we can take the stitches out of the gash over his eye. He might be able to move around then with some help. Donny will be in to wash out the wound and give him the tea and pills in a few hours. Once that wound heals, it will add another large piece to the interlocked scars decorating his body.

Sitting next to him, I stop sharpening my weapons and slip them back into their sheaths on my shell. I slide off my chair into a lotus position. Deepening my breathing, I try to clear and center my mind to meditate on the events of the last few days. Tonight I'm finding it difficult because I cannot find peace.

A sudden movement from my brother interrupts me. I look up and I find he has rolled onto his shell, loose fists striking out weakly. One of his knuckles grates against the brick wall, scraping off skin. He mutters something unrepeatable.

I stand, put a hand on his shoulder and stop one of the fists heading my way. Still asleep, he kicks out at me with his healing leg and gasps in pain. He bolts straight up in the bed, grabbing his upper right thigh. Dazed with an odd combination of sleep and pain, he looks at me in an unfocused manner.

"Mikey?" he says, still half-asleep.

"No, Raph, it's me."

He seems to center himself a bit and blinks to refocus his eyes.

"Leo? Where's Mikey?"

I grin, slightly amused. It's not often my rough-and-tough take-no-prisoners brother looks utterly baffled. "It's my watch now, Raphael."

"Oh," he says simply. He slowly lies back down, wincing. He keeps a hand on his leg as he adjusts and I notice his jaw begin to clench.

"You looked like you were having a bad dream."

He raises his eye ridges as if he were caught off guard by the comment. Turning his head to stare at me, he asks, "I was dreaming?"

I grin again, sitting back down in the wooden chair. Raph rarely asks questions. He prefers direct, blunt and often inappropriate comments. "Yeah. It looked like you were fighting something."

"Oh," he says again. He turns back to the wall, his shell toward me. A few minutes pass, but I can tell by his breathing that he is awake and thinking something over. His jaw begins to clench again.

"Hey Raph," I begin, drawing a katana to polish. He turns his head and looks over his shoulder at me.

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember where you got all of your scars?"

He doesn't answer me for a couple seconds.

"That's a weird question, Leo," he says edgily. I marvel at how readable he is: I can almost see his defenses go up. He looks back at the wall and we are silent again for another couple minutes.

"I bet you'll remember this one, huh?" I say, extending a katana to point at his leg.

He rolls over onto his shell as quickly as he can and glares at me. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Leo? I ain't in the mood for a lecture."

I hold my hands up, katana, polishing rag, and all. "I'm not trying to lecture, Raph." He snorts weakly in disbelief. "I'm just saying that I know _I'm _going to remember it."

He looks at me analytically, as if he _knows_I'm up to something but he can't figure out what it is. Confused, he attempts to goad me. "And why is that, Fearless Leader?"

I hate that nickname. A few days ago, I would have risen to the bait. Not today. Today I need to have some peace.

"Because Raph," I begin, laying my sword across my lap. His half-focused eyes meet mine. "When Mikey and I were carrying you through the tunnels, I realized there was a very good possibility that we could lose you ... for good."

I have shocked him. He looks at me like I have two heads. I sigh and shift in the chair.

"I was scared, Raph," I explain. "I was scared when we were carrying you, I was nearly sick when Donny dug the bullet out of your leg, and I was terrified when we couldn't wake you up that first time." I look at him and he's still staring at me, mouth partially open. "_I was scared_. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Apparently he doesn't because he stays silent. Eventually he directs his gaze at the ceiling instead of me. I start to polish my sword again in long, even strokes as if nothing has happened. I doubt I'll be able to meditate tonight at all.

We're silent for nearly fifteen minutes. The sound of his breathing and my polishing mingle together in the room. I've nearly finished buffing the blade when I see him in my peripheral vision. He looks down to his scarred shoulders and arms and then back to the ceiling.

His soft voice breaks the silence. "I remember how I got most of them," he says.

I nod and continue to polish in long, even strokes. Inwardly, I smile because it sounds like something did get through that thick skull of his.

"Some of them I got because I was stupid and sloppy. I lost control. Those are the ones I remember most because they remind me of it." He sighs and shifts slightly. "This one across my left elbow I got from a shard of glass from a windshield when Casey and I tried to take down some street hoods stealing a car. We got the hoods but the car was smashed," he laughs cynically. "Can't win 'em all, I guess."

He stops talking and then shifts again. I get up to adjust the pillow elevating his leg but he waves me away and does it himself. I sit back down and continue polishing.

"Damn," he curses, gingerly probing at the bandage. "This slash," he points out a scar running along the top of his left thigh, "I got it in that fight with Purple Dragons – you remember the one, on 2nd street?" I smile and nod. I have a scar or two from that fight as well.

Raphael surprises me by telling the back stories of many of his scars. As he speaks, I begin to understand the invisible demons that he fights at night.

I listen to his scars as I switch katanas and begin to polish the other in long, even strokes. As I clean the hilt, I hear my brother's voice become slurred and then silent altogether. He eventually falls silent into a deep healing sleep. Sheathing my katana, I lean forward, elbows on knees, to study my brother.

Stretched out on his shell, his arm hangs loosely over the edge of the bed. He barely moves as I check the drainage from his wound. His eyes are still sunken and bruised but his left eye is no longer swollen. With his mask off, I can see the deep circles under his eyes. He is still slightly pale and will be until this entire ordeal is over. Raph's leg, now stiff, bruised and swollen, will eventually heal totally with some practice and some patience. The lamp near the door casts rounded shadows on my brother's face and reflects off his polished sais on the battered nightstand near his head. His plastron expands with his deep and calm breaths. His eyelids twitch as he dreams and it strikes me that my hot head of a brother actually looks peaceful.

I slide off the chair in to a lotus position and begin to clear my mind. For the first time since this started, I finally feel able to meditate.


End file.
